


Guardian

by TheNot



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley is human, Depression, Drug Use, Guardian Angel AU, M/M, aziraphale has been demoted to Guardian Angel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-06-26 19:16:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19774681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheNot/pseuds/TheNot
Summary: Aziraphale, recently demoted from Principality to the long-forgotten class of Guardian, is charged with a beautiful, depressing mess named Anthony J. Crowley.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> had this thought stuck in my head so i sneezed it onto my computer - kinda short, but hoping to write more. warning: i made Crowley real depressed bc projection so big warning on that (more for future, but still)

Anthony Jonathan Crowley.

While asleep, the man's typical slouchy, frownish demeanor was utterly forgotten. Not to say he looked _peaceful_ \- quite the opposite. Unknown dreams caused his face to pinch in stress, deflate in grief, or wallow in resignation. Between the pure despair emanating from Anthony's form and his aggressive, handsome features, Aziraphale found himself unable to spare a glance elsewhere during his charge's long fits of slumber. Which was a pity, considering those were the only times Aziraphale could re-corporate himself undetected.

For the life of him (or something like it), Aziraphale could not understand why Anthony J. Crowley, of all humans, was the first in hundreds of years - maybe a thousand - to receive Her gift of Guardianship.

As far as Aziraphale could tell in his short week watching over the forty-something year-old man, Anthony wasn't much good for anything beyond sleeping, drinking, and supplementing his paltry diet with questionable medication. And especially not good for entertaining his invisible companion.

Aziraphale was restricted from moving beyond a certain range of Anthony's aura, so he found himself guiltily hoping every time the man opened a cupboard to find the reserves of wine, whiskey, and vodka dwindling. Sometimes, the angel would be rewarded with a trip down to the (London? hopefully!) streets for five sweet minutes. More often now, Anthony ordered his spirits from some mobile phone application and barely let the door open enough for Aziraphale to scent the breeze of the hallway.

Examining the man's flat had lost its appeal quickly as well. The interior design, put kindly, was minimalist. Put not so kindly, it was severe and isolating. Very few pieces of furniture adorned the many rooms, but their purpose seemed to be _increasing_ the negative space, not occupying it. When Anthony did make it through his abode in his slithering, withering way, Aziraphale was reminded of a small minnow flailing in a large, empty aquarium, making Aziraphale the ever-present child begging the pitiful creature to do something, _anything_ , to help pass the time besides looking helpless. The only bits of personality Aziraphale _could_ glean came from a positive jungle of houseplants in one room that seemed to put as little effort as possible into living as Anthony had been recently, and a collection of movies and CD's in an otherwise empty entertainment center. Even the large television was so dusted over that it carried no reflection of the cavernous living room.

Everything about Anthony's life felt hollow. The empty space in the flat, the concerning pit of booze he was trying to drown himself in, the curled claws his fists became when he slept - fiercely grasping at air as he slept long and unsoundly.

For once, Aziraphale felt that he had to drag his eyes away.

Finally entering his usual body (from before this mess of a reassignment), Aziraphale took a more physical stroll around the flat. More out of boredom than divine conscientiousness, he caressed a few crestfallen leaves of a fern into standing at attention, ignoring that the plant's fate was likely sealed when Anthony stopped watering and opening the blinds just on Aziraphale's first day at his employ.

Meandering and forcing off a fit of his own depression, Aziraphale caught the scent of a previously-ordered pizza and found himself in the living room.

Crust, cheese, every topping Aziraphale loved and every topping he hated, winked at him from the cardboard. A single slice was out of place, only a few bites shy. Aziraphale had never worried for his own immortal soul more than in that moment.

Despite being new to the Guardianship business, Aziraphale was aware how taboo conscious angel-human interaction was in the twenty-first century. This was likely the reason for Guardianship going out of style, other than angels being promoted to the Heavenly Host to receive battle training, for a war Aziraphale was quite skeptical about - its purposes, its reality, etc. Not that he ever entertained these thoughts before fiercely tossing them out his other ear.

Truly, Aziraphale thought that the lowest class of angels had been eliminated categorically for good. Not so, it seems, when heaven is looking to _demote_.

Still better than falling, Aziraphale supposed. …Probably.

Certain that in his drug-addled state and constant half-consciousness, Anthony wouldn't notice a slice or two of his gaudy pizza mysteriously missing, Aziraphale indulged.

The first taste of grease, sodium, any spice at all - Aziraphale forgot to steel himself for the reminded sensations. As a Principality, he ate his weight and more at every restaurant he laid eyes on. Some servers may have thought it strange that the portly blonde man ordered so much for being so alone, or ate so quickly for someone so keen on savoring the taste of things, but Aziraphale was full of frivolous power that could be thrown over mortal's eyes with the brush of an eyelash towards his cheek.

Accidentally three slices in, Aziraphale managed to stop himself. Maybe…he should see how much power his new station stripped him of. A strong focus on the empty wax paper in the box and the particular ingredients thrown on the pie created only a sheen of sweat to coat the back of Aziraphale's neck.

Nothing. If Aziraphale still had enough power to damn something, the pizza would have been positively blazing.

While he was able to restrain himself from stowing the pizza in the fridge (as was his habit, Anthony was likely to wander in to finish his forgotten slice to fill himself up for the fortnight), Aziraphale was not able to forget the earthly pleasures that waited just outside the flat's front door.

Spreading love and joy through the world as a Principality was always going to be Aziraphale's favorite pastime (if anyone was asking), but such work was often unrewarding and lonely. Any time a cat was saved from a tree, a stray tick-bite would put the feline down - this time in his child's arms. Any time Aziraphale made an honest-to-goodness friend, over books or wine or other pleasant insignificancies, the human would die. Well, after a while at least. If he was particularly unlucky, much sooner than a while.

Aziraphale thought such work needed balance. Some sort of partnership. Indeed, he had often felt lost and strangely empty whenever he dined at the Ritz or went to feed the ducks at St. James. Humans were the ones created to have relationships - with each other, with The Almighty, but angels? They were quite literally the deuteragonists to the whole tale. By now, Aziraphale probably should have gotten used to it.

Wandering back into the bedroom, Aziraphale was mildly surprised to see Anthony sprawled in a slightly more comfortable position, face nearing stressed on its way to calm. Despite its limitations, maybe Guardianship was more Aziraphale's speed. Surely the human could not keep his determined self-disinterest up forever.

\-----

3 more weeks, 9 more pilfered meals, and 1 concerning, rambling phone call to a senior Crowley later, Aziraphale was worried this might be his life for the next few decades. A sick part of himself thought (maybe even hoped?) it might be much less.

Surely as the man's Guardian, there was something he could do. He never really received adequate training on the subject before being demoted, but Aziraphale knew part of the deal was to at least protect the human's life. But without intervention, it seemed like the human was on a one-way path to misery, death, and another concerning file in the angel's permanent record.

The more Aziraphale worried for Anthony's soul, the more he ate his food. Today it was something vaguely Thai that looked like it had been dumped from a chum bucket into its disintegrating styrofoam bowl, a brownish fluid somehow seeping onto the kitchen counter. Still - every bite was ecstasy.

Being cut off from the world had made Aziraphale forget himself - he ate ravenously, shoveling the food down his throat so fast that the original purpose of enjoyment had to be remembered as it made its way down his hastily-constructed esophagus. He even indulged in finishing off Anthony's beers, a hide-and-seek game scattered around the flat, which tasted more like a smell than a taste. Some small part of Aziraphale's mind wondered if he _had_ fallen. After all, he had never met any demons, as far as he knew. Maybe falling was just a euphemism, and Guardianship was a secret plot to rid heaven of its most troublesome, capricious, and doddering types. Such deep introspection was long lost on Aziraphale as he roughly punctured his tongue with the plastic fork.

" _Ouch!_ " he hissed, only biting down on his tongue in the process. Guardianship, while hiding him from his former heavenly glory, did not protect him from the mundane pains of the earthly realm.

"You alright?" drawled a sleepy voice from behind him.

"Oh, yes, I'll be fi-"

Aziraphale turned, figuring himself to look much like a stuffed caveman in a museum when the lights are turned on suddenly. His hand faintly grasped the takeaway napkin for protection.

Anthony stood in the kitchen, leaning with a calculated, slimy precision Aziraphale must have missed without an audience to work it on. He wore his usual almost-nothing, just black boxer briefs and a kimono so sheer it acted as loosely-shed second skin. Only - the sunglasses that waited for Anthony on his nightstand for the past few weeks were now on his face and staring him down. For the first time since Aziraphale had seen him, Anthony was making an effort.

"A-Anthony!" In a daze, Aziraphale focused on wiping his chin with the napkin. He hadn't thought about efforts of any sort for a very long time.

"Crowley."

"Crowley?"

"Anyone who _knows_ me calls me Crowley," Anthony said, now leaning as much on his words as he was the kitchen supporting beam. Aziraphale fought the urge to say something trite like, _I suppose I don't know you as well as I thought_ , because of course he didn't. Although, he had barely known what was in the man's food and he swallowed that down without a second thought.

"Oh. Crowley, then. That's all right." Aziraphale knew he should be questioning something about this interaction, but he hadn't even _spoken_ to another person in so long, that he found himself following Anthony- _Crowley_ with his eyes as he stepped up to the Thai takeaway box. With more purpose than Aziraphale had ever seen him muster, the man plucked the fork from Aziraphale's grasp and slowly wound a ball of noodles with a twist of his wrist. The noodles clung to the fork, went up, up, _up_ , and disappeared between Crowley's lips, which had adopted a fond smirk that anticipated a conversation Aziraphale was not supposed to have regarding his presence here.

A soft, poking prod snapped him out of his reverie. "What are you staring at me for? Let's eat up."

Another plastic fork, offered to him by a soft, crumpled hand. Aziraphale accepted.


	2. Chapter 2

Somehow, Aziraphale found himself sitting on an uncomfortable piece of fabric-covered foam that was just barely fashionable enough to be considered Crowley’s sofa.

The man himself was in the kitchen, as evidenced by the call of clinking glasses.

“You drink?”

“Not as much as some,” Aziraphale said, hiding behind an angel’s most comforting tone - impatience and thinly-veiled judgement. The sound of pouring only halted for a moment, punctuated with a comma of a snort, before it continued.

Crowley entered the living room with two amber glasses, ready to preserve this moment of Aziraphale’s utter failure as an angel. How could he be so unaware? Maybe his vices were truly too unbecoming of an angel - the evidence of his mistake spreading himself indecently across from him on the coffee table. Crowley handed him a glass and perched back with his own, eyes lazily examining his own living room behind his glasses, like he hadn’t seen the area soberly in a long time. As far as Aziraphale knew, he hadn’t.

“So, murderer, is this about my dad?”

“Your- what? _Murderer_?“

“Or kidnapper, rapist, all the same to me, really,” Crowley drawled, like he was listing potential outings for a dull Tuesday. “I assume you have a purpose here. I’m oh-so- _terribly_ sorry, but Daddy dearest could not give less of a flying fuck about my life and you’ll certainly not get even a blink of change off him. If that’s your goal.”

“It’s- Not.” Aziraphale’s frown was less intentional and more a symptom of his deflated confusion.

“And if you’ve been watching, which it’s pretty clear that you have, you’ll find I don’t care too much for my life either.” For a moment, the shaded pupils matched Aziraphale’s with a resigned smirk before they shot back off to a corner light fixture. “Just so you know. I figure the point of being a murderer and all that is to get high off people’s fear of death, yes? You won’t be finding that here.”

“I’m not a murderer, Crowley.” Aziraphale felt his control of the situation heighten with the increase in schoolmarmish exasperation bleeding into his words.

“Suit yourself.” A large gulp finished off the whiskey (?) and was applauded with a bang as glass met glass on the table. The eyes peeked over the sunglasses now, leering. “I’d be a great victim - trust me, I can muster up the requisite screaming and squirming if it does it for you.”

“Crowley...”

“Or not. I’m not known for being quiet, but I can give that a try too.”

“Crowley.”

“Maybe we can make a day of it. I’m out of habit with role-play but as long as you can promise the happy ending then-“

“CROWLEY!”

The other man froze, and Aziraphale noticed Crowley’s fingers clutch his empty glass with the only amount of fear his body was allowing him.

“Listen to me. I am not here to murder you, torture you, or hurt you in any way. If all had gone well, you would not have even known I existed.” Aziraphale felt the urge to cover Crowley’s hand with his own as a comforting gesture, but one was still gripping the glass and the other rested too far up Crowley’s thigh for his liking. “I apologize for intruding and, well-“ a shaky, human cough reminded him of his condition, “had I still the power to do so, I would wave my hands and make you forget I was even here.”

“‘Still’?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale continued, not catching what Crowley was actually confirming. “So, in the interest of us both continuing life as simply as possible, it would be best for you to just...forget that I was here on your own.”

“On my own?”

“Yes.”

“Because you can’t make me forget?”

“Yes?” Oh Lord, if he started asking follow-up questions-

“Hmm.”

Aziraphale sweat for the fourteenth time that day (still the first day he’d ever had to do so). He supposed he could assume his ill-fitting ethereal form again and disappear from view - let Crowley figure it out on his own and never make such a critical error again - but the chances of upstairs discovering the mistake would go completely out of his control. What if Crowley finally got his rear in gear and suddenly publicized this experience? Of course, no one would believe him, but the fervor of the skeptics would surely interfere with the Great Plan’s reliance on pure faith. Plus, Crowley’s speech, mannerisms, and general lack of activity were disconcerting. Maybe being a more...active guardian could be helpful? The boy certainly _seemed_ to require a guiding presence in his life. Or any presence at all.

“Is... there anything you’d like to know?” Aziraphale asked timidly into his own glass, taking his first sip and luxuriating in the finely-aged whiskey. He had avoided the bottled liquor in Crowley’s tall cabinets since he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop at one imperceivable sip. Chasing the aftertaste around his teeth with his tongue and forcing his eyes from going half-lidded, Aziraphale extended himself the courtesy of pretending earthly pleasures had nothing to do with his decision to stick around.

“Typically I’m full of questions, me. Often gets me into trouble,” the man twisted, finally letting go of the glass to prop himself up at an even more wily angle. “What is it you _want_ me to know?”

——-

Funnily enough, Aziraphale knew so little of his own position that the explanation ended before his drink did (not that he was going to rush the experience, anyway). Crowley only looked more and more thoughtful, his back leaning a little further with each revelation until he was laid back on the coffee table, squinting out the side of his glasses at the angel as he sat. The empty glass was now being toyed with - spun easily and thoughtlessly with a finger on the rim. At least he hadn’t gotten up for a top-up.

“So you used to be a principal-“

“Principality.”

“And then you fucked up something hard.”

“Yes.” Aziraphale finally made sure to finish his glass.

“And now you’re stuck with me for all my days as a guardian.”

“That’s a rather rude way to phrase it, but-“

“Why me?” The man was asking the ceiling and Aziraphale faintly wondered if he was trying to break rank with his questions.

“Truly, I have no idea. No offense, my dear, but you aren’t exactly Gandhi.”

“You know, I’ve heard Gandhi is supposed to be _problematic_ now.”

“Really?” Once Aziraphale was back on the internet he would have to give that a Google (which a bright young man who was absolutely dreadful with computers showed him one afternoon as apology for failing to fix his original Macintosh). 

The thought of being away from the store for so long (and so little to go) made a surprising flare of anger burn at the sight of Crowley’s lazed form. “Surely _you_ must know why you’re so important.”

“Why would I know that, angel?” He sat up, swinging more out of style than drunkenness. Despite the whiskey, this was the most clear-headed Aziraphale had ever seen him. “Your ‘head office’ must have given you some paperwork on me.”

“That would be the sensible thing to do, but...you know how those things go.” A thought occurred - “You mentioned your father? Maybe he’s linked to your importance somehow?”

Crowley physically recoiled - possibly gagging a bit. “ _God_ no. Maybe if you were an agent of hell. ‘Sides, like I said, he couldn’t give two shits if you skinned me and sent me to America as a leather rug. In fact, he’d probably thank you for the new decor and line his favorite armchair with it. He’s definitely not good-tidings, good-heralds-type news. He has a pinky in near every American gang, casino, prostitution ring, you name it - so unless you’ve come to save my soul from him, he’s not related.” Upon a slight eyebrow raise from the angel, he added, “and it’s _definitely_ too late for my soul.”

“And...your mother?” Aziraphale was now too hopeful and desperate to think cynically about the potential answer until he asked the question. “Is she...?”

“Donno. We had a bit of a falling out when I was a teenager - she had too many rules and I had too many questions. Her and my dad split eons ago, so I was sent to live with him.”

“Oh, Crowley...”

“Shattup,” Crowley waved the sympathy out of the air roughly. “Me dad was more fun anyway. Even though he is a complete and utter bastard.”

“I see... So we know nothing.”

“Looks like it.”

A silence grew between them, but not an uncomfortable one. For all the information Crowley just became privy to that no human had confirmed in thousands of years, he seemed remarkably well-adjusted. Curious, but not agonized. Aziraphale could tell the questions were starting to bubble - his eyes darting around, fingers drumming on the cup, and tongue darting out to wet his lips more often than biologically necessary. The man was near boiling and Aziraphale steeled himself for another drain of conflict between his angelic boundaries and his sociabilities.

“Does this mean there’s an afterlife?”

The tone, rather than the words, brought Aziraphale pause. Crowley’s eyes slowed to a distant stare that aimed into the uncanny valley beyond the angel’s face.

“Yes,” he breathed, this time actually reaching to lay as gentle a hand as possible on Crowley’s knee, trying in vain to still the faint bouncing and fidgeting it was born for.

“So you’re saying, if I die-“ Crowley swallowed and clenched his eyes shut behind his sunglasses. The motion inadvertently made the plastic slip down his nose, making his clear brown eyes visible when he opened them again. “There’s more?”

“More?” He asked, nervous for the answer.

“I have to go through more...life? Forever?” He must have known his eyes were exposed, but made no motion to hide their desperation. An intimate offering in exchange for the answer he craved. An answer Aziraphale could not give him.

“Yes,” Aziraphale breathed. The slope of the conversation demanded an _‘unfortunately’_ , but the angel fiercely denied it. Instead, he repeated his words and his physical connection, gripping Crowley’s knee with the strength he would normally reserve for embracing a whole body. “Yes, my dear boy.”

Crowley didn’t cry or yell or do any of the things Aziraphale had known emotional humans to do. Instead, he nodded, muttered some kind of “right” or “well then”, and excused himself to bed.

Aziraphale took his cue, spending the rest of the evening polishing up and off their whiskey glasses. Feeling like quite the emotional creature himself, he finished the whiskey to save the bottle from being chucked into the neighboring flat. Earthly desires, he was familiar with. Whatever was wrong _here_ , was something so completely out of his depth, and for once in his six thousand years of existence, Aziraphale found himself doubting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's interesting how writing can help me slip in and out of these destructive mindsets that i've had in the past myself.....is that a good thing??? (is this finally what coping is)
> 
> anyway I appreciate the comments left so much and y'all are wonderful. hope y'all continue to enjoy


	3. Chapter 3

Aziraphale had been fully prepared to be shunned for the rest of his charge’s short human life. In between pacing anxiously around the human’s bedroom as he snored and reading a Biblical passage on spiritual armor (that he hadn’t perused in an embarrassing amount of time), he thought about the best strategy for helping Crowley’s unique circumstances.

The angel _knew_ depression existed just like he _knew_ Antarctica existed. Such topics were discussed in his books, and often with confusingly romantic language, but he had never seen those truths himself - and really had no desire to. But, it was because of this fourth-hand knowledge that Aziraphale could recognize some of the more subtle signs.

(Like wanting to not exist. Those kinds of subtle signs.)

The was more, so much more, to this disorder that Aziraphale would have hated himself for not looking into it further, had he been capable of feeling hatred. He wasn’t even a hundred percent certain that depression was a disorder or a disease or a particularly foul mood. The literature had settled on _something_ but he couldn’t for his eternal life recall what. The limits of his demoted form pushed back when he tried to expand his consciousness to a picture-perfect past or the entirety of heaven’s body of knowledge. And the invisible chain tying him to Crowley kept him from going back to the shop to find the proper literature.

He was in the middle of trying (and failing) to exit the front door when he heard rustling come from the bedroom. Out crawled Crowley, looking mutely exhausted until the moment he was in Aziraphale’s view, suddenly yawning and bending like a famished giraffe to an oasis into a stretch. He might have intended to be tempting, but the effect was lost in the already-minimal sleepwear he sported. Unimpressed and off-put with the theatrics, Aziraphale just shut the front door that held him to the flat.

“I need to go out.”

“Alright, one minute, let me get the leash and collar, old boy, no need to scratch the mahogany,” Crowley drawled, glancing around the living room for something. Luckily, there were no pillows, throws, or other adornments to conceal hidden items.

“Very funny,” Aziraphale called out, knowing he had already lost the man’s attention. Crowley must have found what he was looking for, as he suddenly became purposeless again, kicking back on the sharp edge of his sofa and bringing a handful of something to his mouth that Aziraphale had purposefully ignored. “What are those, anyway?”

“Candy.” Then, as Aziraphale opened his mouth to scold his brattiness again, he dodged to, “Where do you want to go?”

“My bookshop. In Soho. Can you take me there?”

“You have a favorite bookshop?” The man’s gleeful smile would be mirthful had it been sober. Instead, it was toothy and dreamlike. “In _Soho_?”

“Not my favorite, just..Mine. I owned a bookshop and I really would like to check on it. Maybe see about the status of my Oscar Wilde first editions, make sure they don’t need a holdover miracle restoration while I’m- otherwise indisposed.” Lying was usually something that would burn his tongue slightly, similar to the singe of fresh soup without a hardy blow to cool it. However, this new form of Aziraphale’s had almost no reaction. He barely even blushed.

That is, until Crowley’s eyes took a trip up and down that very form.

“I guess I should have pegged you as an Wilde fanatic. Actually, now that I think on it, I suppose the Soho bit does go well with that.” There was either a lopsided blink or a bona fide _wink_ \- Aziraphale couldn’t be sure.

“Yes, yes, everything I do and say is so _amusing_ to you and we must spend an age prodding me about it.” He nodded his head toward the hand still clutching the front doorknob. “Will you _deign_ to let me check up on my shop or not, Crowley?”

The “Crowley” was the only word the angel would give as a plea, and it seemed to resonate with the human somewhat, who, for his part, looked appropriately guilty. Then his frown resolved into a blank expression that only eyes could betray, and those were thoroughly disguised.

“Alright, we can go. Just give me some proper time to get dressed, you can’t rush beauty.” He stood and ruffled his hair intentionally out of place as he swaggered into the bathroom. Aziraphale stopped himself from following to encourage a quicker wash-up.

—-

When Crowley tried, it looked very much like he hadn’t tried at all. Aziraphale figured that was rather the point. Despite the oppressive London heat and the crowds heading to the same tube station as them, Crowley wore all black - trousers tight on his legs, shoulders donning a short, leather jacket, and feet clad in faux snakeskin. (When putting the boots on, Crowley made a big show about how no snakes had been harmed in making the shoes. He had a soft spot for serpents, which Aziraphale privately shared.)

Aziraphale, in his waistcoat, tartan, and predilection for anxiety, was sweating down his neck. At least he had always kept his hair short, fashion be damned.

By the time the tube belched the two out into Soho, Aziraphale was feeling exhausted and perturbed. Of course, humans did this sort of thing all the time, but Aziraphale was not used to...vigorous movement and impermeable throngs.

Crowley, lithe and youthful and used to the world, ebbed and weaved through the crowds effortlessly, but stood with surprising patience as Aziraphale heaved breaths of air slightly more lukewarm than that of the underground.

“I used to have a car,” he offered as apology, tapping idly on his phone. “What’d you say the name of this place was again?”

“I doubt...” a dignified huff covered up a wheeze, “ that it would appear on Google, my dear. It _is_ a divine outpost.” Aziraphale had to intentionally stand at his usual posture, back aching unfamiliarly from having to actually use its postural muscles. “What happened to your car?”

“Blew up. Hey, is it this A. Z. Fell and Co.? Clever name.” He held up the phone and, sure enough, a skewed and distorted photo of Aziraphale’s front door greeted him. There even was a cream-clad figure beyond the glass discussing some purchase with a thin stranger he couldn’t make out the features on.

“A friend named it.” Forcing himself decidedly _off_ the concerns of Big Brother Google, he instead attached attention to, “Your car... Blew up.” Crowley nonchalantly began leading the way to the bookshop, still looking at his phone instead of his feet. Aziraphale hurried to follow at his side but still gained no visual acknowledgment.

“Yep,” Crowley popped the P, chewing the conversation like bubble gum. “Did something stupid, caught on fire, and she- _it_ blew up. Not much else to say.”

“What sort of situation could you have gotten yourself into that ended with your car _on fire_?”

“I don’t _remember_ ,” Crowley whined slightly, sounding ever more like an exasperated teenager hoping their mother would stop nagging them. “There was some business on the M25 and I didn’t want to wait on the good chaps at traffic patrol to sort it out so I just...barreled through.”

This sounded vaguely familiar to Aziraphale - some incident of mass hysteria that overtook London (and possibly the world) for a few days some time ago. Was it last month? Last year? Just like the world, Aziraphale had forgotten, the confusion of that time being lost and strangely out of focus. Nothing seemed to be amiss in Aziraphale’s bubble, at least to his memory, so his hazy recollection was likely more a side effect of his current corporation.

“That must have been very traumatic for you.”

“Well...” Crowley finally looked up, still holding his phone but unconsciously locking the screen to black. “I mean, probably. I do have an aversion to fire, now. But nothing, y’know, too _phobic_.” Aziraphale caught a quick glance around the side of his sunglasses. “Gives me this eerie sense of loss.” A quick cough and his eyes righted themselves back to the screen (still blank) as he doubled his leisurely walking pace, forcing Aziraphale into a unsightly half-jog.

“I see...” Maybe Aziraphale would look up a tome or two on exposure therapy at the shop as well. He really hoped his nonfiction collection was up-to-date (or existed at all).

After some more minutes of frenzied steps and silence, he dared to prod further. “Tell me about her.”

“Who?”

“Your car. You anthropomorphized it - to ‘her’?”

“Hmph.” The grunt sounded vaguely like acquiescence. “Not much to say. She was a good car. Reliable, tough.” Crowley looked thoughtful for a moment, then genuinely smiled. “And she was _fast_.”

“A sportscar, then?”

“Yes, but not one of those modern ones with computers for guts. She was old-fashioned. A Bentley, black. But shiny like she had been kept pristine since World War II. I don’t want to believe it, but whoever had the car before me must have loved her just as much to keep her like that.”

“And you...drove it through a fire? On purpose?”

“Clearly I wasn’t in my right mind, angel, or else I wouldn’t have done it,” he hissed, showing his eyeteeth instinctively. Crowley seemed more angry at himself or the world than Aziraphale, but also very confused, like he was explaining someone else’s actions without knowing the full story. Even without his eyes, Crowley was the picture of ‘lost’ as an emotion. “And now she’s gone and I’ve got to walk around like a proper Londoner again, so there’s the punishment. Sorry if it’s a pain on those corduroyed calves of yours.”

“No... trouble at all!” Aziraphale chimed, forcing himself out of the man’s spiral of self-pity. It was dangerously magnetic.

In his desperation to keep up with Crowley’s long strides that wove him effortlessly among the crowds, Aziraphale focused too much attention on his own feet and failed to notice the man stopping dead at a corner, slamming into him.

“Looks like we’re here?” he posed as a question, ignoring the sharp angle his shoulder met Aziraphale’s chin with. While the angel wavered, clutching his face with less-than-angelic grace, Crowley just approached the shop and gripped the front door handle.

“We’re here? Oh- no, it’ll be locked, let me-“ he began the motions to conjure up a key or miracle the entranceway open, but the door pivoted out easily with Crowley’s lazy pull.

“Looks like someone opened it.”

“That’s not right... I haven’t been here in weeks. Months, even...” He inspected the entrance more closely. Sure enough, the displays looked well-maintained and dusted, and the sign was distinctly flipped to “Open”. “What on earth..?”

“Let’s investigate, shall we?” Crowley seemed to take a minor revel in the angel’s confusion as a turn, and gestured for Aziraphale to enter first, and following behind closely. “Maybe some other bibliophilic angel snatched it up while you’re away.”

Aziraphale slapped lightly at his shoulder as he snickered. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m the only angel I know interested in such things.”

“In Earthly pleasures, you mean?”

“I wouldn’t say it with such innuendo, no.”

“Hmm...” Crowley scanned the shop, probably looking for trouble as Aziraphale nervously took stock of every book within view. Nothing seemed particularly out of place...

Except a recognizable bald head doddering over a modern cash register in the center of the store. More modern than Aziraphale knew existed - with an LED light display and two separate card readers.

Definitely out of place.

“Oy!” Crowley hollered, noticing the man at the same time. “You the shopkeep?”

Sandalphon looked up from the register and Aziraphale could see he was attempting to meticulously unwrinkle a ten-pound note. Because he was an angel (of a certain status), it was going quite well for him. A stack of notes as flat as a board sat to one side, decidedly ignored for any human to come by and snatch some. At least the pristine quality may send up some red flags at the bank teller.

“Aziraphale! And-“ Sandalphon grinned instead of finishing the sentence. “And a friend. How...wonderful it is to see you, out and about.”

“Sandalphon.” Aziraphale’s voice came out as ice. Gabriel’s crew once stirred an immediate instinct of deference, respect, and piety, but in his new position, Aziraphale only experienced a gash of envy.

“Sandalphon! Good to see you, mate,” Crowley crowed, throwing a casual arm around Aziraphale’s shoulder and reaching out for a gesture (high five? handshake?) that Sandalphon just stared blankly at with a dopey smile.

“What...brings you to _my_ store?” Aziraphale surprised himself with the bitterness of his own voice, and was absolutely floored when he found that he relished it.

“Just thought I’d keep watch while you’re at your post, is all. Plus, Gabriel was thinking it’d be good to keep an eye on things. See how you were getting on with this...arrangement.”

Something about that word made Aziraphale significantly more possessive, but he chalked that up to Sandalphon’s wandering fingers over the tomes at the check-out counter. Crowley responded to his full-bodied clench with a questioning look, so Aziraphale waved him off like a mother allowing a child to wander a supermarket for the next five minutes. Which he took literally, buggering off to some unknown corner.

“So you plan to fill in for me for what, another thirty years? Forty?”

“Oof, that’s generous,” Sandalphon stage-whispered, leering at Crowley as he nonchalantly ogled an 18th century map on display that drew the Americas in a vaguely lewd scribble next to an unsympathetically-feminized drawing of a cyclone. There were hundreds of years that human had missed, that all humans would miss. “I heard about his _issues_. Fascinating what impotence and loneliness can do to a person.”

Despite himself, Aziraphale squinted at the double entendre that Sandalphon was oblivious to. Obviously the gaurdian had been hovering over Crowley’s life for much too long already for him to assume sexual connotations this quickly from a fellow- well - from a superior.

“Ah, yes, depression, most likely. That’s why I’m here, actually. To get some books on the subject?” He hated that it came out as a question, especially when the angel opposite smiled pityingly at him. Thankfully, to make him beg to borrow from his own library was too cruel, even for Gabriel’s lackey.

“Feel welcome to it. I certainly have no need for these human trinkets. Although, you know your Crowley will only truly seek relief from one book - more than just a book.” When Aziraphale blinked, unimpressed, he superfluously added, “You know, _the Good Book_?”

“Yes, I understood you - I’ve got just the translation in mind.” (Did he even have a modern English translation of the Bible in the shop? He must have. Otherwise he would be lying, and can’t be doing that.) “But you know what they say - human problems, human solutions, human books.”

“Angel-“ Crowley cut in, holding a surprising amount of books for his skinny frame and the short time he’d been let loose. Most were comic books that Aziraphale could not recognize for the life of him, and the rest were popular science literature - covering human anthropology all the way to the sacrilegious Big Bang. How these books found their way into the shop in the first place was a puzzle he didn’t have time to continue. “We sweated our arses off the whole way here and you’re not even looking at anything.”

“I’ll be there in a minute! Here- look these up. They should be towards that nook.” Silently thanking _someone_ that Crowley left the word ‘nook’ alone, he shoved his earlier handwritten note on top of Crowley’s pile before he could think better of it and sent him off. Surely the man knew why he wanted the psychology texts and not take Aziraphale’s choice of literature too personally? Then again, humans could be very temperamental. Especially his human. Sandalphon watched him go with self-importance and disdain.

“Now see here-“ Aziraphale turned back to Sandalphon with a pointed look (just below the radar of being a threat). “I intend to do my best for the boy and carry out Her Great Plan. I know he may not seem much, or act troublesome, but She must have placed me with him for a reason, and it is not my place to question, but to _act_.”

“Questionable, indeed...” Sandalphon murmured, being dangerously close to asking rather than parroting. Aziraphale glanced again at Crowley, now obviously lounging on a vintage chaise upside down while tapping something on his phone, previous stack of books fanned out around him. Clearly he got tired of holding them. The list sat open on his chest, and Aziraphale winced.

Between the sight and still thinking of the sweat leaking from his human-like pores, Aziraphale grimaced back into politeness. “Might I ask you a favor?”

—-

After scavenging together around for nearly an hour, Crowley still made no comment on the topic of the books, only complaints that Aziraphale wasn’t willing to rent the e-book versions and save them the trouble. Around his armful of tomes, Crowley was still able to sneak an arm around to shove an Amazon page in Aziraphale’s face as they went to exit the establishment. Thankfully, Crowley followed his lead and pointedly ignored Sandalphon, who was presumably ironing the curtains or other such nonsense.

“Only 15 pounds! And you can bundle it with the third edition.”

“Why would I want to buy the second and third edition? Are all sales on thiswebsite this redundant?” Aziraphale wiped the clam of his palms on his trouser leg before holding the door open for Crowley. He insisted on carrying the stack himself out the door, which Aziraphale would have called sweet if not for the excessive sighs he made to signify the discomfort.

“I saw four copies of A Tale of Two Cities in there. That’s seven cities too many.”

“That’s different - one is a compilation of the original periodical chapters, the second is the first copy printed in completion-“

“Angel.”

“Don’t you ‘angel’ me-“

“Angel, what is that?”

They had stepped off the corner to find the favor Aziraphale’s wasn’t 100% sure Sandalphon would grant. In hindsight, he should have known the angel would not pass up the opportunity to both be seen as generous and to push Aziraphale towards greed. Not tempt him, of course - just encourage.

Crowley swayed and Aziraphale hurried to catch the books in case they fell, but instead ended up just bracing Crowley’s arm and side as the man’s eyes went wide beyond their shaded lenses.

A Bentley straight out of the 1930’s (possibly literally, if Sandalphon was really trying to show off) was double-parked in front of the shop like it belonged there. Crowley unconsciously shifted the alarming stack of books into Aziraphale’s arms and stumbled on his way towards it, ending up kneeling before its shine. It reflected back to Aziraphale a face that would be overflowing with tears if it wasn’t shocked stone-still.

“It took a bit of convincing, but I figured we’d need an easier way to head home, and...” Aziraphale trailed off, realizing Crowley was thoroughly in his own world, pulling himself up and pacing around the car in a daze.

Aziraphale was happy to finally bring some good news to his charge, but having to debase himself by praising Sandalphon left him doubly irritated. Sandalphon, while angelic, was something of an idiot and Aziraphale, especially now in his weakened state, lacked the divine patience for it. And, of course, exploiting the overbearing angel’s pride was especially disconcerting when that pride should not have existed to begin with. (And yet Aziraphale was the one demoted.)

Crowley’s genuine, soft smile when he finally woke from his fervor was enough to make Aziraphale forget about all that, though. It was the most disarming countenance the angel had ever seen, if he pretended for a moment he’d never seen Her face before (and that was a time long past).

“Thank you, angel.”

“Y-you’re welcome!” Aziraphale squeaked, clutching the mountain of books like it weighed nothing. “Um, the door - the key should be in the ignition and- well, could you help me with-“ He tried to shrug the pile to one side to grab the door handle, but Crowley was there lightning quick, gallantly extending the door for him with a look of reverence that still hadn’t faded.

The moment the angel’s bum touched the warm leather (which interestingly, did not carry a new-car smell), Crowley had already slid across the front and slipped in the driver’s seat himself, roaring the engine to life with a viscous twist of his wrist. His upturned lips curled further into a satisfied smirk and some instinct told Aziraphale to store the books that couldn’t fit on his lap safely on the floor.

A song that Aziraphale vaguely recognized but could not place the genre of began to play, and a man’s voice sang out _loud_ , hitting octaves high and low in a hectic melody. Equally erratic, Crowley swerved fiercely onto the London streets and gunned the engine, leaning into his driving.

“Oooh, yes,” the man purred, drumming his fingers on the wheel. “She remembers me all right.”

“Crowley- _ah_!” The Bentley took a corner so hard the side wheels gained some air, and Aziraphale could only clutch helplessly at the books he still protected in his arms.

The Bentley weaved effortlessly through landscapes of traffic, missed every red light, and seemed to give approaching pedestrians a signal to pause just before stepping off the curb - positively bleeding magic that Aziraphale only wished he controlled. (Apparently, Sandalphon was _really_ showing off his manifestation abilities.) But none of these idiosyncrasies concerned Crowley, who looked to be completely in his element and stark raving mad at the same time.

This strong emotion of Crowley’s seemed...better. Like progress. Seeking guidance, Aziraphale looked down at the books in his arms to see what his assortment of psychology texts might assist him with, but instead, Crowley’s science literature was what ended up on his lap. The capstone title read “Why Life? And Other Big Questions About the Universe.”

For all his human’s simplicity, low profile, and lack of any hobbies whatsoever, Aziraphale felt like Crowley did have some greater tie to this universe. Maybe She wanted him to do something important, be someone important. Or else again: Why Aziraphale?

Another whine of the breaks and sudden jolt to the right had Aziraphale instinctively shut his eyes, and he kept them shut against the images zooming past. Unfortunately, Sandalphon was right - in the grand scheme of things, Anthony J. Crowley was not long for this world compared to a being like Aziraphale. Asking questions would only be a waste of that precious time.

Every time a human companion of Aziraphale’s passed, a touch of melancholy bled into the angel’s psyche, and every time he pushed it away, accepting that it was all in the course of the Great Plan and there was nothing he could do.

He peeked an eye for a moment at the admittedly beautiful human specimen to his right, a ball of wild energy and expression behind the wheel, and smiled. Aziraphale would let the melancholy stew this time. Maybe it could point them in the right direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this chapter took so long - life shit happened. hope people are still reading/enjoying!


End file.
